


Moons Rising over Igen

by orphan_account



Category: Dragonriders of Pern - Anne McCaffrey, Wings over Igen
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-03-04
Updated: 2012-03-03
Packaged: 2017-11-01 02:19:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/350879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Benden bronzerider finds himself scheduled for a meeting. Incomplete.</p><p>Includes T'lir, B'tan, Mim, H'vol, L'ecu, W'ras, S'mat, and T'lev.<br/>Morning on month 4, day 5, turn 753 at Benden Weyr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moons Rising over Igen

T’lir opened his eyes in the dark weyr to a faint scrabbling of tiny claws on rough-hewn stone.

 _Tamaranth_ , he muttered, but his bronze was already awake.

 _On it_ , came the immediate reply, and a sharpening, expanding spatial awareness as Tamaranth listened intently for skittering in the recesses of their weyr. T’lir caught the next sh-sh-sh of movement but was a second behind Tamaranth in mentally locating it -- by the bread-hamper, beneath dinnerware shelf -- and so was unprepared for the sickening ‘thwack’ that followed.

 _Splat_ , Tamaranth echoed, his mental voice smooth with deep satisfaction. _I will eat it now._

 _You shouldn’t ought to_ , T’lir replied, sighing, but there they were: demoted, newly moved into one of Benden’s reclaimed low-level weyrs. _Shall we meet with Milina to schedule some caulk for these holes?_

Tamaranth, being a dragon, could reply with his mouth full, so T’lir had to endure the awful crunch-crunch of a rapidly-disappearing tunnelsnake while his bronze agreed to this and then made his morning queries around their wing.

 _Resith’s rider wishes to speak to you,_ he finally reported. _There is to be a meeting after breakfast. The wingleader, you, and Eketh’s rider. It is of importance._ Another long pause later and Tamaranth passed on, with the gold tinge to his words that T’lir had come to associate with Tamaranth’s mental image of the Weyrwoman’s queen, _Riseth says we should wear our best coats. It is an uncommonly cold morning for this month … and the Weyrleader will be in attendance._

T’lir, sliding his hands behind his pillow and looking up at the pitch-black alcove ceiling, remembered his recent demotion and transfer at the hands of that Weyrleader, and couldn’t help but grin.

* * *

He wasn’t grinning as he arrived to the meeting, though. Eketh’s rider, L’ecu -- tall, lean, hook-nosed and white-skinned with a quickly-receding head of light brown hair -- was a stalwart and pedantic brownrider who flew for a mop-up wing and was well known for being hardnosed when it came to how he felt things ought to be. T’lir had shoved his hands in his pockets, Benden-colored whercoat not enough to keep out the morning chill, as the two men approached the Weyrwoman’s office -- and L’ecu turned to give him a disapproving scowl.

“Hands in your pockets? Come on, man.”

“Pockets were made for cold hands,” T’lir retorted. They were nominally of the same rank only because he rode Tamaranth and not for L’ecu; L’ecu’s wingsecond knots made up for Eketh’s color.

L’ecu shook his head but they were called up the shallow steps, then, and H’vol followed them in a moment later.

All of the men present in the office were of rank. T’lir hid a frown but bade Tamaranth to listen carefully and keep a tight tongue; it wouldn’t do to contribute to gossip before he had a handle on the politics of the situation.

The Weyrwoman stood behind her desk, gorgeous as always to T’lir’s eyes, wearing her sleeveless goldenrod indoor-clothes in the heat of the room. He didn’t try to catch her eye, taking in the other instead: H’vol and W’ras, both wingleaders of solid but underperforming Games wings; himself from H’vol’s wing, L’ecu from somewhere higher up, and two other brownriders who might actually have flown under W’ras until the recent shakeup when B’tan came to power.

Weyrleader B’tan, who smirked when T’lir made eye contact.

 _The brownriders are T’mev and S’mat,_ Tamaranth supplied, providing images. _Under W’ras._

_I thought I told you not to gossip._

_Fact-finding from Mimeth, my dear rider,_ Tamaranth replied, and T’lir sighed inwardly, his face a mask of cordiality. He’d been sent down because Tamaranth was too close to Riseth already. Gossiping -- Fact-finding, Tamaranth repeated, but without much rancor -- with Benden’s queen wasn’t going to help matters if B’tan found out.

“Gentlemen,” Mim began, capturing their attention by crossing her arms. She was tall for a woman, broadly built but with a warmth that endeared her to the wings. “I’m afraid that what I’m about to tell you will be public news across Pern by dinnertime. We, that is the members of the Conclave, have reached a decision these months since Turn’s End and worked to compromise in terms of manpower so that no Weyr will bear too large a burden in the coming months.” She paused, choosing her words carefully.

“I tell you that so that I have your attention: the effort has taken months, there have been countless meetings, and our decisions are final. For the good of Pern, you will accept these orders and make the best of it. I hope,” and here T’lir met her eyes, “that what we have decided will be an opportunity for you. In light of the Red Star’s return, Keroon and Igen Holds have requested the return of dragons’ wings to the heights of Igen Weyr.”

T’lir blinked. He’d flown over it, of course, but Ista took tithe from Keroon now, didn’t she? And Telgar handled what Benden didn’t when Igen Hold needed assistance. Thread -- they hadn’t often talked of it in the ranks, really, but thread over Igen.

“Each Weyr has been tasked to send some cohort to take up the heights. We are still some turns off, obviously, but the Weyr appears to be in good repair and you’ll have our support until you’re up and running on your own. Each Weyr will send fifty dragons in prime fighting health and with a plethora of experience. Ista and High Reaches will send golds -- which ones, I’ve no idea -- and so be granted one wingleader position each. Fort, Telgar, and Benden will send only wings and thus have two wingleader positions.”

Here, she paused significantly. “H’vol and W’ras will lead those wings, gentlemen. H’vol has requested T’lir and L’ecu for his seconds; W’ras wants S’mat and T’mev. Your requests are so granted, your rosters are complete, and I’m afraid that you are my Igen cohort.” Again, she seemed to pause a moment with a sad smile as she looked at T’lir. “There are some small additions to be made as we continue to look through our injured lists and, of course, a few of our weyrlings may be tapped as well. But for now, I expect you to lead my wings and train over Igen.”

The wingseconds in the room had obviously not been told; T’lir exchanged a look with H’vol but couldn’t manufacture a facial expression that wasn’t stunned. This was Benden. He’d flown for Benden since Tamaranth first took him aloft. Igen? What?

“When do we report?” L’ecu asked, into the silence.

“Within the month, I’d expect. Wingleaders will meet at Igen on the first of next month and will work out all the details.”

 _Fistfights,_ Tamaranth murmured, but the words felt green so T’lir knew he was passing along what he’d heard from the wings and couldn’t be angry.

 _H’vol can take ‘em,_ he replied, knowing his words would echo out into the heights. And H’vol did glance at him after a moment, ghost of a grin on his lips, as L’ecu, oblivious, clarified more of the details.

“Wings will stay together for the first few months and then, when the first queen to rise settles the leadership question, there will undoubtedly be the usual shakeups.”

T’lir carefully didn’t look at her.

“And lower caverns folk?” S’mat asked. T’lir looked him over -- sturdy and muscled but wearing a frayed wingknot and lacking any crease in his trousers -- and decided he probably liked him.

“Volunteers first, then a lottery,” B’tan replied. “And we’re taking in some folk from Igen and Keroon to maintain the herds. It’ll be a rough transition but that’s why we have weyrwomen.”

“Just two of them--”

“That’ll be enough,” Mim said firmly. “Conclave has emphasized that a Weyr who sends dead weight will be made to face the consequences.”

The men nodded, accepting this. Conclave was not a body of men and women to be trifled with.

“Your wingleaders will handle more of your questions today and in the coming days,” B’tan announced, clearly bringing the meeting to a close. He spoke forcefully, an edge to his voice that had made T’lir wonder why Resith favored Corroth. Well, there was never telling with golds, just anymore than there was telling at hatchings.

“Anything you need, gentlemen,” Mim repeated. “I do not send less than my best to Igen’s skies.” This was perhaps exaggeration, T’lir thought, but he let it flatter him for a moment. “And we both support your transitions. We know you’ll do Benden proud.”

“Yes, ma’am,” came the chorus. With that, and salutes, the new Igen wingseconds followed their wingleaders into the bowl -- and into a morning where the fog had slightly receded, revealing cliffwalls full of dragons paying far too much attention to the results of their little meeting below.

**Author's Note:**

> T’lir, wingrider on bronze Tamaranth at Benden Weyr


End file.
